Speak Easy
by tea and leaves
Summary: Written for Day 2 of Summer Klaine Week (AU.) Kurt and Blaine meet for the first time in a New York bar. It's 1920, Kurt's a writer, Blaine's a pianist...and the rest is history.


New York City, 1920

I look up from my coffee and rub my fingers on a linen napkin. The novel is close to finished, but who would buy it? I'm eighteen, a street sweeper during the day. Haunting this bar for its music as sweet as honey, for its darkness, is just a temporary distraction. But I need temporary distractions. Life hasn't been simple for me.

Some say their lives aren't as complex as they'd like, but they can't know what complexity of this depth and inescapability feels like. I'm held hostage in myself.

You see, I like men, their deep voices, beautiful shoulders. I'm not supposed to. Lord, I'm really not supposed to. But what can you do when you're born a certain way?

I've been told to stop living, and I tried that. I tried to find some other person within myself, some understudy that I could occupy to get through. But in the end, all I have to give is me.

Someone walks out from behind the bar counter and sits at the piano. He's short, plainly dressed. I can't see his face, but if the way he plays is any indication of beauty, he must be stunning.

Something strange and strong fills me as I look at him. I feel I know him, the way his hands move across the keys. I take off my glasses and trace his curls with my eyes, hollow with longing. It's unlikely I'll ever find someone. Oh, I'll be with someone, several someones, I'm sure. It's easy as dragging your finger along a crack in the floor and getting dirt stuck under your nail. But to actually find someone, someone enduring? That doesn't exist for me.

The man at the piano starts to sing softly. He's probably not supposed to, but it's late, and the bar is vacant, and who would complain? His voice is gravy. Just gravy. It's the most beautiful voice I have ever heard, smooth, with just enough heat and breath to be distinctive and… exceptional.

He's singing _All Alone_. I fold my glasses up and set them neatly on my manuscript, eyes fixed on him, unaware to the world around me. I'm not certain that world even exists anymore. If it does, and if I have to leave this room, this man, to reach it again, it's not a world I want to be part of.

I listen to him sing, hypnotized, for the next quarter hour. When he finally stands up and turns around, he looks straight at me. Lean, powerful eyes, a faithful chin, a slightly angled nose and intense eyebrows. He's riveting in the pastel light of the bar lamps.

His mouth curves slightly, favoring the same small bend as his nose, and we hold each other's gaze so long that my entire body grows warm and tremulous. Then he does something unexpected. He walks towards me unhesitatingly.

I look down and hurriedly put my coffee to my mouth. I stare at the speckled foam in the bottom of the cup, which is shaking noticeably in my shaking hands, and pray that he doesn't sit down. I would love to hear his voice this close, love to ask him his name, but…

"You seemed to recognize what I was playing," he says, sliding into a seat across from me.

The booth is protected, and his voice is low and husky, but there's no mistaking us for what we are.

I set down my cup and finally look into his eyes. "It's one of my favorites. You…you have a beautiful voice. You did the song justice."

"My boss doesn't agree. He only lets me play." He drops his gaze momentarily. "You think I have a beautiful voice?"

"I've been spellbound."

"I can't lie. That was my intention."

"I was curious why you were playing to an empty bar."

"This bar has never been less empty." He raises his eyebrows, smiles slightly and holds out his hand for me to shake. "I'm Blaine Anderson."

"Kurt," I say, shaking his hand. "Kurt Hummel."

We stay touching for slightly too long and I notice something cold connect with my finger. I glance down at his hand. He's wearing a gold band around his fourth finger.

"I hope I'm not keeping you from your family."

"I don't have a family. I pickpocketed this so I could get this job. It stipulated that all applicants be married to avoid…ah…artistic types."

"Oh, yes. Artistic types."

We smile at each other and I lean forward. I breathe his scent in deeply and my eyelids flutter.

"Where did you learn to play like that?" I ask softly.

"My mother," he says. "There was a piano in the basement of our apartment."

"Where are you from?"

"Ohio."

"Really? Me as well. I came here last year to work on my writing."

"What do you like to write?"

"Fiction. Novels. If I can't live in this world…"

"…you might as well live in another. That's what I do with my music." He looks down and clears his throat. "Kurt, I…" He takes my hand. "I've been watching you come here for a month. I just now got my nerve up to play in front of you."

"W-what?"

He grips my hand a little tighter. "You are so beautiful. I just…I sit behind the counter and gaze at you whenever you're here."

I'm unable to breathe. How can a man like this, this man with ink black hair and the scent of cologne tipping off his collar, have fallen…fallen in love…with me?

Warm liquor pours into my veins and I stare fiercely at him. Am I…have I…fallen in love…with him?

He cautiously tucks my hair behind my ear. His touch sets my skin on fire. And then, slowly, experimentally…he presses his lips to mine in a kiss. For a second, I am too surprised and too blinded by pleasure to respond, but then I cup his face in my hand and kiss back.

His lips are as expert and gentle as his voice, and for a full minute, he lets me experience their texture and taste their sweetness. Then he slowly pulls back, eyes fused with my eyes, hands rubbing soft circles on my hands.

Neither of us speak for a moment, and then he whispers, "I'm sorry if you don't feel the same—"

"No," I say quickly. "I do. I feel the same way."

His lips part in surprise. "Oh my God," he murmurs, "I thought…I thought you would reject me…I wasn't even completely sure that you…I thought…I…"

"Tonight is the first time I ever saw you," I whisper, "but I…I _felt _you. I felt every word you sang and when you looked at me…"

We lean close again, mouths brushing. I may never use the word impossible again. I may lock it out of my vocabulary even if this night produces nothing and vanishes away like morning fog.

"I would…I would like to know you better," I tell him.

"I would like to know you better, too," he replies, smiling. "I am in love with you, Mr. Hummel."


End file.
